His Note
by FionaTailynn
Summary: "That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note." "Leave a note when?" 3 years after Sherlock jumped off St. Bart's, John gets a mysterious phone call from a blocked number. And the voice on the other end is scarily familiar.


_**The Adventure of the dying detective**_

There was a buzzing coming from John's phone. He rolled his eyes. Anyone who knew him would know that he hated getting phone calls. At least that was how it had been in the last three years. Still if they did call him then it could be important, so he reached for his pocket and pulled out his mobile. The caller was blocked, which made John wonder if he really should answer.

_It's probably just someone else from the papers._

Even after three years they wouldn't leave him alone. The journalists were pretty much the only reason he wasn't able to move on; Every time things started to get better he'd get a call from another person wanting to make a special on the death of the fake detective.

"He isn't a fake!" was all John would scream in the phone and then hang up.

John put the phone down on the table and started to ignore it, but the phone didn't stop ringing. John let out a sigh and picked up. There was heavy breathing at the other end of the line.

"Hello?" John asked.

"John..." An all too familiar voice whispered. It sounded like...

_No, that's impossible. He's dead._

John said to himself and took a deep breath.

"Who is this?"

"It... It's Sherlock."

"Ha ha. Very funny." John said sarcastically "Tell me who you really are."

"I know it's hard, but please believe me." Whoever this was, was making a shockingly good impression.

"Sherlock is dead." John hissed. This was even worse then the journalists.

"I took precautions so that you believed that. Ask me anything. Something only Sherlock Holmes would know."

"What? No! You're just wasting my time!"

"Please!"

For some reason John didn't want to hang up. Maybe because there was a slight chance that his former flat mate was alive.

"What were his last words to me? I mean face to face, not on that bloody roof."

"I said 'Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.'"

John's eyes widened and he put the phone down for a moment.

"John? John!" A voice called out from the phone, "Talk to me! There isn't much time!"

John's fists tightened and he picked up the phone again. "Time!? You've had three years time!"

"I know, I'm sorry. But that's not what I'm talking about."

"Then what are you talking about?"

"That isn't relevant."

"It sort of is, Sherlock!"

"That's not why I called."

"Yeah, right. Why did you call? In fact, why did you even bother to tell me?" John growled. There was a sigh on the other end.

"Where are you?" John asked after calming down a little.

"That doesn't matter."

"Sherlock, you clearly have some problem since you're breathing heavily and would've come home if you could've. Tell me where you are."

"...I'm in the old park house, a couple blocks away from the flat."

"I'm coming to get you."

"No! It's too dangerous!"

_Click_

Sherlock stared into the darkness and lowered the phone from his ear. A drop of blood fell onto the screen.

John got up and pocketed his phone away. He quickly ran to the door, grabbing his coat and firearm. He'd never thought there'd be any use to it again, but then again he also never thought he'd get a chance to see Sherlock again.

Instead of waiting for a cab to come he decided to go on foot. It was probably faster due to his rush of adrenaline. He jogged for roughly ten minutes and stood still in front of the large building. John swallowed and slowly walked inside through one of the doors.

There were echoes of voices coming from down stairs but John couldn't make out whose they were. He quietly walked down the steps and was ready to shoot anyone at any time. The voices became clearer, John could definitely recognize Sherlock's voice, but it sounded different, weak. And then there was another slightly familiar male voice that John couldn't place.

He got to the bottom floor, which was dimly lit and could see two figures. John quickly got behind one of the cars so that he could watch the two men without being seen.

After a couple of seconds of him simply crouching behind the car and catching his breath he peaked over the roof of the car. One of the two, Sherlock was sitting on the floor, glancing up at the other. The second man was standing opposite to Sherlock, but John couldn't get a glimpse at his face to figure out from where he knew him.

This was real. Sherlock really was here, he really was alive. The shock from these facts made John take a while to notice the blood running down Sherlock's face and the dark puddle around him. John bit his lip not to scream in horror. Only with a lot of self-control did he manage not to shoot the other instantly. But something held him back. He knew this man from somewhere. He closed his eyes and concentrated on what the two were saying:

"... Taking a while. I wonder if he's going to come."

"It's better if he doesn't. He won't have to see this happening."

"But that's what this is all about isn't it?" the man giggled, "This was your last request."

"My request was to ensure him safe. You can kill me, but I want him to stay safe."

"Yeah, yeah. You have my word, for now. All the boss wanted was for you to die. He didn't care about the spare."

"Then why haven't you killed me yet?"

"He specifically said I should make it as painful and long as I could. If I let you bleed to death and give him the possibility to see you alive I'm taking care of both."

John swallowed. If this "boss" was who he thought he was, he couldn't simply shoot this cruel man, whatever he might mean to him.

_No. Sherlock can't die. Not again. Not now._

John decided that he wouldn't be able to do anything hidden away here, knowing that this building was most likely surrounded by snipers. He took a deep breath and stepped away from the car. The two men stopped talking and looked at him. John froze on the spot. He was right that he knew this man.

Colonel Sebastian Moran. He could never forget that name. But he'd never thought that this man would end up here. They had fought together in Afghanistan; John had even patched him up once. A man who owed him his life, who had always seemed to be one of the "good ones" was here finishing what Moriarty started.

"John." Sherlock said softly, there was clearly worry in his voice.

John was pulled back into the present. He ran over to Sherlock and knelt down next to him. He had a gunshot to the pelvis and deep cuts on his face. John took his coat off so he could wipe Sherlock's face with his sleeve.

"John, I-"

"It's okay."

"No, it isn't. I'm sorry."

"It's fine, Sherlock." John said with a sad smile. Sherlock was thinner, had dark circles under his eyes, and was even paler than usual. John estimated the amount of blood lost to be about a pint. That wasn't /too/ bad but as malnourished as Sherlock was, he could probably lose consciousness any second now. He needed to stop the bleeding. John ripped his sleeve off and started to apply pressure to his friend's wound.

"Step away from him." Sebastian said, pointing a gun at John. He looked up at him and took one step back from Sherlock lifting his hands up. "Sebastian! Please let me help him."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Captain Watson."

"I don't care for who you work, but if you let me save him I'll let you go."

"And what happens if I don't?"

John took out his gun and pointed it at his former colleague. "I will give you a bullet. And don't keep your hopes up that I'll get it out of you again."

"Fine. But to make this more interesting..."

There was a gunshot and soon, Sebastian had vanished.

John let the gun fall and tightly held his wrist. The bullet had shot right through his palm. It wasn't a serious injury or anything, but how was he supposed to stop Sherlock's bleeding like this?

John ripped his other sleeve off and wrapped it around his hand. He knelt back down next to Sherlock who seemed to be at his limits.

"You're going to be alright, Sherlock. I'm not letting you die again."

"I'm sorry, that I can't ensure you of your success."

"Be quiet." John said. He got his phone out and dialed 999, which took longer then usual, due to his preferred hand being unusable. After explaining the situation he got onto treating Sherlock's wound as well as he could. The wound on his hand hurt like mad, but this wasn't nearly as bad as what Sherlock was going through at the moment.

Sherlock's eyes began to close automatically.

"No! Stay with me, Sherlock. Talk to me."

"I never meant this to happen." Sherlock mumbled almost incomprehensively.

"Never meant what to happen? You mean me getting shot? That was going to happen again eventually." John said semi-absently.

"No, I mean that you had to think I was dead."

At this point it seemed almost impossible that he had once believed Sherlock to be dead, it was all just a distant memory. Even if that was the same day.

"Sherlock... We can talk about this la-" He saw Sherlock's eyes close and not open again, "Sherlock? Sherlock! Wake up! No, no, no... Not now."

_Okay. Concentrate. There isn't much time left. You only need to slow down the bleeding enough so that he can make it until the ambulance arrives. They'll have the correct equipment._

John kept putting pressure on the wound, but stopped every now and then just to make sure there was still a pulse, and to rest his hand for a couple of seconds.

Yes, there it was: a small, hardly noticeable beating. The bleeding seemed to be slowing down and John's hopes of getting out of here were rising. Until he checked the wrist again and there was nothing.

His first thought was, that Sherlock was playing a trick on him again, that he was just acting, as he was dead. But when he thought about it, he pushed that ridiculous idea away_. _

_Okay, now's the time to panic._

Wait, no. That wasn't right. He was lucky his doctor-instincts kicked in and his brain switched completely off for a moment.

_One, two, three, four, five. Breath. One, two, three, four, five. Breath (oh people will definitely talk). One, two, three, four, five. Breath. Wake up! Wake up! You can't die now, you idiot! Wake. Up._

John kept on hammering onto Sherlock's chest, and blowing air into his lungs, leaving bloodstains from his hand on Sherlock's shirt, in the hopes that there still was a chance for him. In the distance he heard the sirens pass by.

_No, no don't leave me. Don't you dare, I swear to you Sherlock Holmes, this time we either both stay or both leave._

Just then the paramedics rushed in. More importantly, they rushed in with a defibrillator. As they knelt down next to Sherlock, John stepped back and let the people with the "updated" knowledge do their job. He closed his eyes and waited. The machine was turned on and it seemed as though nothing happened. But then John heard someone gulp for air.

John frantically turned his head, to be sure that what he'd heard wasn't his imagination. He let out a sigh of relief; Sherlock was still unconscious but he was breathing again. The paramedics loaded Sherlock onto a gurney so they could treat his wound in the ambulance.

John followed them and after a long argument was allowed to sit next to him. The doctors ran around Sherlock, treating his wound, and all he could do was sit and watch pointing out everything they were doing wrong in his head but never saying it aloud.

There was a sudden movement from the hospital bed. John's head snapped up. He'd been sitting at Sherlock's bedside for hours, wanting to be the only person there when he woke up. John pulled his chair over so he could be closer and reach for Sherlock's hand. It was ice cold, but that made sense, since the transplanted blood wasn't going through his hands first. Still the hand wasn't completely numb, since the moment he grasped it, John felt a squeeze. Sherlock slightly opened his eyes and smiled. John smiled back.

"Sherlock..." he murmured.

"Yes?"

"Thank you for giving me my miracle."

"Thank you for not giving up." There was a short pause.

"John, I've been meaning to tell you something."

"What?"

"You were right."

"About what?"

"Friends _do_ protect people. If it weren't for you, I wouldn't be here. And this isn't the first time that is the case, and it certainly won't be the last."

John almost opened his mouth to say that that was false but then closed it again. Sherlock smiled, but was then reminded that he still owed John an explanation.

"John... I have to explain why I had to-"

John raised his hand "You can do that later when I actually do have the urge to punch you."

"Fine." And then they both burst out laughing.


End file.
